Mabel came to dinner

I made a grand entrance, practically somersaulting onto the patio as I lost my balance and landed on my side. I cradled Felix in my arms and ended up underneath him, cushioning the fall. He cried, startled from the sudden loss of balance but was easily soothed.  We were at a friend’s birthday party at a restaurant that hosts kid friendly happy hours on the patio on Sundays, picked so that it could be a family friendly event. The weather was beautiful as we sipped cocktails and let the kids roam by the planters.  I sat with Chris and Felix and made small talk with some of the other party guests- including the birthday girl’s parents. We knew a couple people well, but most of the guests were new to us, including the parents.  As I held a squirmy baby in my lap, the common question came up- “Is he your first?” the father of the birthday girl asked.

My husband was the first to respond.  I’ve answered the question many times but I haven’t had the chances to witness my husband answer.

“He’s our second.  We had a daughter, but she died after birth.”

“I am so sorry,” the father responded, easily. “I know what it’s like to lose a child and it’s never easy. I’m so sorry.”

It was perfect.  But of course it was- he was a bereaved parent. I had known he lost his son.  When Mabel died, his daughter and I shared some moments of understanding. We talked about how even simple small talk can be daunting when someone close to you dies.  I had to get used to the “do you have kids” and “is he your first?”  She had to get used to “do you have siblings?”  These questions can make it hard to make friends or even date easily.  Or perhaps they are great screening questions- a litmus test to see if people would be comfortable cavorting with the bereaved.

Later at the party, as the food came, I heard my cousin’s voice from across the table.

“Meghan, look! Carrots!” She offered up a small plate for me to see two carrots accompanying someone’s meal.

“Awww, look. Mabel came to dinner,” I said, easily, happily.  Smiling I took one of the carrots offered and crunched.

“How did carrots become her symbol?” asked another party goer- the birthday girl’s sister. After I told her the story, she saw my necklace and pointed it out. “Oh wow! Your necklace is a carrot too.” Though I didn’t know her well, she had known about Mabel through her sister.  And she asked easily, bringing Mabel into the conversation without hesitation. Because she knows too what it’s like to be bereaved.

And just like that, my baby was at the party.  She was the center of attention, she wasn’t ignored.  She was just there.  May all my social outings be so easy.

Work update!

I have a new job!

I still have my old job too.

Since I returned to work I’ve been seeing patients in the office 4 days a week, the fifth day is a day of appointments- therapist, chiropractor, acupuncture and general mental well being. I took a significant pay cut to work this schedule, one that kept me out of the hospital, and I am thankful that my practice was able and willing to accommodate me. But the “(when) will I go back to births” question always hung over my head. When I first asked to be an office-only midwife, I left the door open to return to birth, but with no time line. I still like having that option, but my practice needed something a little more definite. I honestly thought I’d be back by the holidays (Thanksgiving and Christmas) so I could repay my co-midwives for unexpected holiday time they put in for me last year. But I soon realized that goal was unrealistic. It caused me a lot of stress to even hear my co-midwives even talk about holidays and schedule, knowing they had more to do because of my absence from the hospital. When the topic came up at our winter midwife meeting, I conveniently had to use the bathroom at that moment. In addition, my practice wanted to know whether they should hire another midwife to replace me or if I’d be back soon. Well I finally was able to give them an answer.

As of April first I took on a part time position as Program Director for Hope After Loss, my local non profit helping those who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss. The organization runs peer-led pregnancy and infant loss support groups in four towns, does outreach and education to hospitals, medical providers and anyone who asks, and provides burial or cremation financial assistance to those who cannot afford it for their babies.

Taking on this new position means I plan to remain in the same capacity at my other midwife job- no call. I gave them the go-ahead. Hire another midwife! Takes a huge burden of guilt off my shoulders. I know my colleagues are sad to hear I’m not doing birth in the near future and I’m sad too- there are some things I miss about it, certainly the hospital staff I almost never see anymore! But I know I’m not ready. Some may call it avoidance, but I call it self-preservation. I need to still work on enjoying midwifery in the office and finding fulfillment there before I can return to joyful birth in a place that holds so many memories for me.

This wonderful new part time position has kept me a busy bee these past few weeks, hence my absence from the blogosphere.  But my dear friends, I have missed you!  And I”m trying to be back.  I have much to tell.

Sunday Synopsis

Changing early pregnancy etiquette– I like this article because it keeps on the theme I”m seeing more and more of in mainstream media- let’s talk about our losses!  espeically miscarriage- the hush hush secret.

THe healing power of animals.  This is like my story, sort of.  We got our puppy six months after Mabel died.  I needed something to love and mother.  It’s not a save-all.  Getting my puppy doesnt undo the grief of burying my child, but I found comfort in it.  Do you have an animal in your life that has helped you in your grief?

I hope that you never know.  I love this article for addressing the grief olympics that sometimes comes in the bereaved world.  I also love that it says “be there…even when you are pushed away.” to those who want to support us.  I can’t say how important this one line is to me.

Couples who chose not to have children are selfish, Pope says. Not to bring in any debate about religion, but any thoughts on this?  I think of couples who lost babies to due multiple miscarriages, due to life limiting conditions, due to stillbirth, due to reasonless reasons.  What if they choose not to go through the pain of another pregnancy?  What of the couples who struggle with infertility?  There just feels likes there’s too much behind being childless for people (religious heads or not) to judge.

Sunday Synopsis

Brides are now donating their wedding gowns to an amazing cause–  At the end of my pregnancy, I remember looking online for a baby burial outfit- just in case.  Not much out there.  The closest I could find were christening outfits- but they were gender specific and we didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl.  I also worried they would be far too big for the small baby I was expecting.  I eventually stumbled across the perfect outfit which came just in time before we had to bury our little one.  It’s hard enough to have to even consider buying a burial outfit that small, so it’s heartwarming to hear that some people are trying to make that terribly sad and taboo task a bit easier.

NILMDTS photographers camera stolen-  Remember this?  Camera card returned to the news station!  expensive camera equipment weren’t but the memories were so gratefully returned to the bereaved parents.  there’s even a fund started to help replace the photographers equipment.

These photos show what women really look like after pregnancy  *TRIGGER WARNING* this has moms with babies in it.  I post it because I still get so upset even seeing this headline. I feel like the moral of the photo story is- it’s all worth it because, look, we have these beautiful babies to show for it.  The 4th trimester.  What about us?  We are not even underrepresented- we are passed over entirely.  It angers and saddens me.

Bridging the gap between the baby bereaved and those who love them–  I stumbled across this at such an opportune time.  It touches on something I’ve recently been trying to work on- rebuilding some lost relationships since my daughter died.  It’s not easy because I had built up walls.  I like how this article makes it a two way street- we are often quick to blame others for not understanding, not reaching out.  But we also play a role. In the time leading up to ThanksgivingI was dreading some face to face time with a baby around Mabel’s age.  Her mother reached out to me a few days beforehand, recognizing how the holiday might be hard for me and asking if there was anything she could do to make it easier.  It was such a gift- to be asked directly.  I was able to answer honestly about my concerns regarding seeing the baby and give warning about my unpredictable reactions.  It was SO much easier to be asked than to volunteer the info.

Meet the first model with Down Syndrome to walk at New York Fashion week.-  Love this!  It’s great to see more positive images of people with Down Syndrome in the media.

 

 

 

 

Sunday Synopsis

El Deafo, How a girl turned her disability into a super power– I love how this normalizes a disability.  I hope there are more like it to come!

10 Ways C-sections and vaginal births are exactly the same. I know many of you had to have a c-section, which may or may not have been part of your birth plan.  I know my birthplan went out the window when we learned of Mabel’s prognosis.  I was prepared for an emergent c-section if needed and I gave up up on the vision I once had of a joyful, intervention-free labor and birth.  Instead, my labor was full of fear and dread and I opted for an epidural.  I could go on at lengths about how I feel I failed as a midwife there.  and that’s just an epidural.  I know many woman who struggle having had a c-section and I think this article is great for proving just how brave it is to go through that.

Bereaved Parents Voices Heard at Last- I like this article because it’s about giving babyloss moms voice- highlighting that our experience matters with our care- both the good and the bad.

Freshpet Holiday Feast– just because its funny.

Have you read anything lately that spoke to you? 

Finding a little fulfillment

I’m overdue for a post, I know. Some weeks there are plentiful moments that grab and illustrate my grief and other weeks there are no new moments just the same old same old, repeating “my baby died” or she is not mentioned at all. For the most part this week was the latter, hence my absence from writing. But there have been a highlights to my week.

I gave a talk to the midwifery students at my local school of nursing. I felt GREAT afterwards. My only regret was time management. I was there with another babyloss mom who is the program director of our local babyloss bereavement nonprofit and the main goal of our session was to give the personal side of things- they were to have a lecture afterwards on the clinical side of babyloss. I, of course, was happy to share every detail about Mabel’s story- and I did, getting far more detailed than I usually do because these are students who understand what oligo means and pulmonary hypoplasia signifies. I talked and talked and talked and then was out of time- so just ran too briefly through all the notes regarding points I wanted to make on how to help bereaved parents. The best part, I think, was the handout I brought. I took all the comments you wrote and took quotes from them- labeling it “Advice from Baby Loss Moms.” Beside each quote I wrote who said it “mother of Sacha, who died of an unexpected brain tumor the day after birth” and “mother of Clara, carried to term after a Trisomy 18 diagnosis and born still at 36 weeks” and “mother of baby lost to miscarriage.” I took suggestions from everyone who commented and know that the students read your words and knew of your baby.

Being in the school and talking in front of the students made me feel very fulfilled. I was reminded how much I enjoy teaching and how much I have to teach. I think doing more of this will help me bring some satisfaction back to my job.

The rest of the week was relatively unremarkable- except for one day. I started off with a patient who knows Mabel’s story and has told her kids about her even. After a big hug and a quick but genuine cry, she gave me a gift from her oldest daughter. A pink carrot with Mabel’s name written in 4 year-old script.

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The following two appointments were remarkable as well. One, another babyloss mom, whose first child was stillborn, is finally pregnant again after too long a struggle with infertility. I am constantly awed at how unfair the world can be sometimes. We embraced and each shed tears- I told her of all the times I thought of her son, including in May, when I was at a babyloss Mother’s Day event, where we lit candles for babies taken too soon. When it was my turn, I lit a candle and said it was for Mabel but also for the other babies I had cared for- for Giada, for Mia, for Noah, for Olivia…and name all that I could remember. It was a good visit. Following it was another patient who was newly pregnant after miscarriage. When I couldn’t find a heartbeat last time, we both cried. I was thrilled to see her back and back so soon.

I remember feeling this way with patients before my loss, but the emotions are so much stronger now. Part of me wonders if I could just have a practice with the babyloss, but that is not feasible. A nice idea, huh? A waiting room full of patients who know loss? In another world…

 

How was your week? Did you find fulfillment anywhere?

Alumnae Magazine

Back in July I received an email from my class rep from my alumni magazine. At the end of each magazine, there are class notes, where people write in and tell a tidbit about themselves. It’s organized by year and every month it’s the first section I turn to, to see if I recognize any names. I’ve never written in myself. I weird felt- like I had one chance to do so, because otherwise who wants to be reading the same names over and over. The paragraphs are filled with my overachieving classmates and their marriages, their children, their lawyer or doctor jobs, their start ups, their amazing trips around the world. In the midsts of all the humble brags I love finding morsels about people doing less typical things. I am mostly annoyed by what I read, yet still am drawn to it.

This summer an email appeared in my inbox aimed at those of us who lived in our freshman dorm. It was a smart tactic- I certainly gave it more thought since I was asked rather than just volunteering info.

What are you up to these days?  Whatever you want to share is welcome. Although family and work news is always great, I (and your fellow ’02ers) would also enjoy hearing about hobbies, travel, get-togethers with other ’02ers, and commentary on 30-something life. It doesn’t have to be written in third-person or otherwise edited/print-ready either; that will be done by me and a series of copy editors following me, so feel free to hit reply and send me a quick note!

When I first read it, I thought “Hah! Family and work is what 30-something life is often about!” It is for me, at least. The request came at just the right time. I spoke to Chris and he was supportive so I replied:

I am currently living in Connecticut and working in the New Haven area as a nurse-midwife.  This year my husband and I welcomed our first child, Mabel. We knew she would be born sick, but we remained hopeful.  She lived for six precious hours after birth.  Lately I spend my free time blogging about my grief in hopes of advocating for others who have also experienced baby loss and hoping to increase awareness for bereaved parents.  

My class rep responded so appropriately with the right kind of “I’m so sorry” and asking if my blog was public so she could read it.   She said they don’t usually publish websites, but she’ll see if the editors would in this case.

So this month I opened up my magazine and found my name in bold among the wedding and baby announcements of my doctor and lawyer classmates. I was four months younger in my grief when I wrote it, just starting to feel the desire to speak up- really speak up- about my grief. I was nervous, thinking I’d be perceived as a Debbie downer or attention seeker. At the same time, I was angry at the injustice of the social pressure I felt to not share about the birth of my daughter which was followed quickly by her death. I had the same right to share baby with my classmates too! So now, with many months of speaking up under my belt, I’m so glad I to took the risk.

Have you taken any risks that paid off? Any that didn’t?

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Another baby’s funeral

When I entered the church I was hit with the scent of my childhood Sunday mornings. The familiar incense, only found in catholic churches, surrounded me. It was a small building, about twelve rows of wooden benches lined each side of a center aisle leading to a marble altar placed centrally on the pulpit. I slipped into a pew a few rows from the back, nearest the exit so that I could escape easily if I needed to. The last time I had been in a church was for a friend’s wedding; this time I was surrounded by strangers, dressed in dark and demure clothing, appropriate for a memorial mass for a baby.

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I was worried about how I would feel going to the service. Would I cry? I thought as I drove to the church. Would I seem emotionless and heartless? I found those original thoughts laughable as tears stung my eyes, the moment the first note of the organ music began. Now I worried I would seem overly dramatic as the tears continued to flow, before any words were even said. I’m not a quiet crier, with a snotty nose that needs constant blowing. I paced my breathing trying to keep my emotion discreet, telling myself I could always step out to the foyer if I needed to.

I pictured myself grabbing my purse and finding refuge in the entryway. The woman who had greeted me on the way in would look up and ask what was wrong. I would apologize for my theatrics, saying how I too had lost a baby and this was simply bringing up too much emotion.

I did not escape to the foyer. Instead I looked up and saw a few rows ahead of me a woman, about fifteen years my senior, holding a tissue to her face. She was crying almost as hard as I was. Seeing this woman unabashedly letting her tears flow reminded me that I was at a funeral! It’s okay to be sad! A baby died! Having a partner in overt sadness gave me the strength I needed to be present through the rest of the mass. I’m unsure who this woman was- I imagined her as an aunt, maybe one without kids of her own, who treated the bereaved mom like she was her own child. Or perhaps she was simply someone who felt deeply, had a particularly strong sense of empathy. She did me a favor that day: her tears gave me permission to shed my own openly.

I listened to the familiar chants and prayers of a Catholic mass, cautiously looking around, eying those surrounding me. Up ahead was a set of three young women- college friends of the mom, I imagined. They were dressed nicely in black dresses with colorful sweaters, a combination that seemed appropriate for a dark service on a bright sunny day. Their hair was carefully arranged and makeup done nicely- their attention to their appearance made me think how much they respected and cared for the parents. The woman in the pew ahead of me had placed her purse next to her on the bench. It sat with the top open, exposing its contents. My eyes were drawn to the keys, which had a small key chain with the faded school photo of a nine year-old girl. I became fixated on that key chain photo, thinking how the bereaved mom would not have one of those for her baby, how I would not have one of those for Mabel.

I was at that service to remember the little girl who entered this world silently a few days before, but I couldn’t be there without thinking of Mabel too. Had I remained loyal to the Catholic faith, this is the kind of service we would have had for my baby. I could see the mom in the front pew and watched her emotions through the mass. I was transported back to the first days after Mabel died- the anticipation of her wake and burial, the family surrounding me at all hours, the engorged breasts announcing to the world that there had been a baby. It was hard.

The priest gave a nice sermon about death and mercy- explaining that we were not asking for mercy in the forgiveness of sins sense for the deceased, but instead we were asking for mercy for ourselves, asking for compassion as we mourned what we lost.

After the mass was over the crowd, which was sizeable for a weekday morning, slowly filed out behind the grieving family, ending in a receiving line. As I waited my turn, I watched a few women who were dressed in scrubs. The bereaved mom was a clinician in a local medical clinic and I could tell these were women who worked with her. It warmed my heart to see them present and wiping away tears. I wanted to approach them and tell them a tiny bit of my story- that I’m a provider who lost a baby too and that returning to work was hard. I wanted to tell them that I thought it was so wonderful they were here and to please, please continue to watch out for the mom. Don’t let her return to work to soon. And when she’s ready, protect her. She’ll look better than she feels. Even months out, her baby will be on her mind and she’ll face constant reminders with her patients. Don’t forget. I played these words in my mind, but never got the nerve to say something. I didn’t want to bring my story into her day. But I know that her coworkers were there for her that day and by that alone, I know they’ll be there for her later on too.

While waiting in line, a woman asked if I were a friend of the mom’s or the dad’s. I said I knew the mom. She introduced herself as the mom’s aunt and asked how I knew the mom. This was a bit awkward for me as I met the mom through this blog and to explain it felt a little clumsy.

“We’re sort of internet friends,” I said inelegantly. “I lost a baby too and I write a blog about it. We found each other that way. I’m a nurse midwife, so we’re both in the field.” My voice was shaky, betraying the nervousness I felt bringing my baby’s story into another baby’s special day.

“I’m a nurse too,” she said and noted how she knew the baby’s whole story from the beginning.   We nodded at each other, sharing the understanding that fellow nurses have.

When I finally made it to the receiving line, I met the dad, who had his daughter’s little hat tucked into his pocket, creating a very special striped accent to his dark suit. The mom and I exchanged hugs and all I could think about was her poor chest- all that hugging when milk is trying to come in. At the end of the line I spoke with her mom. My standard introduction was “Hi, I’m Meghan. I’m a new friend of the mom’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Her mom grabbed me by the arms and said, “Meghan? The blog Meghan?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Oh I am so glad to meet you. And I’m so sorry about your loss too. I saw the page you wrote about Clara, it was lovely.” I suggested she look at the comments because there was a whole lot of love coming to her family from all over. “I am just so happy you guys have found each other- wait, no. I mean, I’m so sorry you both lost your babies, but…”

And I interrupted her, reassuring “Yes, me too.” There should be a word for the weird sense of camaraderie the babylost have- we are so happy to have each other, but wish we never knew one another, that none of us ever gained membership to this awful and special club, that our babies had lived.

I left the church feeling strangely good. It was a weird day- it seemed too sunny and warm for a funeral mass. Perhaps I was colored by my own story, having buried Mabel in the cold snow, but it just seemed so surreal that I spent the past hour sobbing in the dim church only to leave with the bright sun warming my bare arms through the bright green leaves on the trees.

Have you been to a funeral since your lost? What was it like for you?

Empathy is a two way street

I’ll be the first to chime in with an “Amen!” when those in my community vent. We hear others complaining about not sleeping through the night because of a colicky baby or how they wish they could have some alone time just once in a while. We wish we could have that too and hearing people complain about what we wish for, just reminds us all the more what is missing. Sometimes our frustration is pretty valid, like how this loss mom describes how hard it is to read how people call their kids unseemly things in the name of humor. It’s hard for a bereaved parent to listen to others not appreciate what they have. I can get angry, especially at work where I see pregnant women and moms over and over. Sometimes my anger is justified. Sometimes it’s not.

You’re smoking marijuana while pregnant and mad at me for finding out? Sweet geez! You have no idea how good you have it! I would love to be pregnant and so unconcerned about my baby’s health that I make poor choices. Justified

You’re crying because you haven’t slept in days due discomfort of forty-one weeks of pregnancy? My gosh! You have no idea how good you have it! I wasn’t lucky enough to experience 41 weeks of pregnancy, let alone a baby to take home at the end of it.   Not justified.

I complain how people lack empathy for me and my situation. But who am I to speak, when I can’t show empathy towards others? Can I be mad at people when they make stupid decisions like drug use in pregnancy or calling their kids hurtful names? YES. I can and I will. Can I be mad at people who are suffering in their own world, even if there suffering isn’t as great as mine? NO. It’s like someone who has lost her baby and her husband looking at me and saying I have no idea what sad is. Or lost two babies. Granted, I think about these things. I have experience a loss that some would call the worst kind of loss. But not me. I know different. Since I have tasted badness, I know that there could worse. These women suffering in the discomfort of their expectant bodies just haven’t known worse. They are not thinking, “I should enjoy this moment of pregnancy even if my hips hurt, because my baby could die.” No one should think that. I’m sure, we of the babyloss, probably do think that with subsequent pregnancies; it’s where my mind goes when I hear these common complaints of pregnancy.

I need to learn to reel it in and bury these thoughts. They are unfair. I need to re-learn empathy. I remember a midwife who was once able to sit with her patients and empathize with their aches and pains. She was even able to do while pregnant with baby who was going to die. But she is not me anymore. I struggle everyday to be that midwife. I struggle to merely fake it.

I visited the hospital

“I’m going to get three dozen,” I said to Chris as we drove to our favorite donut place. “It’s going to be a little pricey, but it’s for the people who took care of our baby.” He nodded in agreement.

We were on our way to the hospital, my first time back since Mabel. Each month after her death I had something big to do. March I had to be home by myself. April I was supposed to go back to work (I didn’t). May was mother’s day and the birth of two new babies in my family. June I actually went back to work. July I started seeing prenatal patients and saw my newly born nephew for the first time. Now it was August and my plan was to go to the hospital, to simply be there. To sit in each of the rooms I was with her- the room I was pregnant in, the room I labored in, the room I birthed her in, the room she lived in and the room she died in. Step one for getting back to being a full scope midwife.

I told Chris on the ride in that I was nervous. He patted my thigh, as he usually does when he’s trying to reassure me. “I’m nervous about how I’ll feel- sad, angry. But I’m also nervous that I won’t cry.” I felt like I was setting the stage for how things were supposed to be. I’m supposed to go to the hospital and feel all sad, have a good cry and then the scariness of the building would melt away and all would be well. But I’ve learned that there is no set way to grieve, so I didn’t know how I would react. I was afraid that if I didn’t cry people would think I’m better- I’m over her.

As we approached the hospital, I felt shaky, as the familiar tightness in my chest that I have come to know as anxiety, took hold. Slow breaths and Chris’s warm hand on mine, helped calm me. My ID wouldn’t let me into my normal parking garage, so I had to ask the car behind me to back up so I could do the same. The embarrassment acted as a little distraction as I found a spot on the street. We entered the children’s hospital through a large revolving door and I noticed a decoration at the center- a bunny made out of grass and two carrots laying next to it. Had I been able to park in my normal garage, we would have missed this display all together, going in a separate entrance. I took this as a good sign.

The Carrots in the revolving door

The Carrots in the revolving door

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I stepped into the hallway. I froze, unable to go forward and so I surrendered myself to my tears. When I finally was ready to go on, we passed professional photos on the wall of smiling children- all successful graduates of the NICU. Under their faces, was listed their gestational age and reason for needing intensive care. Brian- 27 weeks- omphalocele. Mara, Jenna and Samuel- 32 weeks- triplets. There was no photo of Mabel- 36 weeks- Down Syndrome, dysplastic kidneys and pulmonary hypoplasia.

I swiped into the Labor & Birth unit and passed more photos, this time of pregnant women and smiling babies. I remembered sitting in the charting room when I was 24 weeks pregnant. Another doctor was commenting to me about those photos, which were a new addition to the floor. “You know, we are a high risk hospital and many of our babies end up in the NICU. It’s not a good representation of our population, all these healthy, normal looking babies.” I was nodding in agreement, when her face froze, realizing what she had done. “Oh, I am so sorry. I wasn’t even thinking of you.” She knew my baby had Down Syndrome. I appreciated her honesty.

I walked by the photos, thinking again how Mabel’s face was absent. There wasn’t even a face like hers. As I approached the front desk, I was greeted with smiles from some of the nurses. One gave me a big hug and said “It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be good.” More tears found there way out. I embraced another nurse and thanked her for the cards she had sent. I had received countless cards after Mabel died, but she had been one of the few people to send a card when Mabel was diagnosed with low fluid. Once hugs were exchanged, I said “I brought donuts,” which brought laughter to the group.

After relinquishing one of the dozens of donuts, we headed to 469- my labor room. We closed the door and I burst into tears. The last time I had been in this room, Mabel was alive. I cried looking at the bed I knelt on through my contractions. I cried looking at the shower I tried in an attempt to ease the pains of labor. I looked at the infant warmer and imagined all the babies I had placed on it in the past. I tried to imagine doing it again- being a midwife in this room, hearing the satisfying cries of new life, helping a couple become a family. I cried at the thought of holding babies and being part of these happy moments. I cried at the thought of helping people have what I didn’t. “I hate it here,” I said to Chris. I pulled up the youtube video I had made and we started watching it on my phone. I wanted to remember some of the good things. As we watched, my tears dried up and we heard knocks on the door. One of the midwives I work with, one of my labor nurses for Mabel and one of my midwives joined us. They gathered around me and watched the rest of the video. I could hear sniffles and soon a box of tissues was found. I remained dry-eyed. The video makes me happy, though it makes others sad.

My labor room

My labor room

When it was done, I was ready to move on to the NICU. My midwife had checked to see if Caroline’s room was free. It’s the space families can use when they need a place for privacy. “It’s not always used for bad news,” the neonatologist had told us on the tour, when I had asked him where can we go if our baby is dying. Today the room had a sign taped to the front, saying “reserved for the XX family.” My midwife had checked and we could use it for a few moments while the family was out. I wondered what bad news the XX family was dealing with today.

The furniture had been rearranged. The space was small, 6 x 10 feet maybe and it had just enough room for a small couch and two chairs. Today the couch and chairs were reversed, each occupying the space the other had been in when we were there with Mabel. I didn’t like it, the furniture rearrangement, and I said so. Chris and I sat on the couch; it was the couch were we held Mabel as she died, the couch where I put her on my lap so I could see all of her for the first time.

Caroline's room

Caroline’s room

“I don’t feel her here,” I said.

“I can, a little,” Chris replied.

“I don’t.”

But I then went on to tell my midwife about the bunny and carrots in the revolving door. We talked about how my ID didn’t work and she said I can’t take it as a sign that I shouldn’t be back. She had a problem with hers not so long ago. That brought us into a conversation about work and me being back delivering babies. It’s a conversation I don’t like and I got a little upset, so it didn’t last long.

Not wanting to take any more time away from the XX family, we left Caroline’s room and found the charting room to drop off our second dozen. The elevators then took us to the maternal special care floor. Three nurses were working there, two of them had cared for me while I was in house. I dropped off the remaining dozen donuts and headed to 1038, my room on the floor.

This was the place I was happiest in pregnancy. Once I was admitted and survived my first twenty-four hours, I realized that my baby was likely going to born alive. She was safe here- monitoring all the time and the burden of worrying about her well being wasn’t mine. The room looked more spacious, without the weeks worth of belongings I had brought with me and without the cot they had brought in for Chris. Their was an empty plastic basinet against the wall, waiting to be filled by a new baby. My baby never saw a basinet like that one. She only knew the warmth of a NICU isolette and the warmth of my skin.

my maternal special care room.  I was happiest here.

my maternal special care room. I was happiest here.

I looked out the window and noted how it looks different in the summer. My last view from the point showed streets covered in snow. My midwife joined us as we were looking outside. She mentioned how in the parking lot below us she had recently seen a jazz band at the farmer’s market that sets up there on Saturdays. The parking lot was outside the city’s mental hospital and Chris commented on how it was an odd place for a farmer’s market. “Look at that sign!” I pointed to a white banner hung up on the wall of the mental hospital that lined the parking lot. It advertised the farmer’s market and had a picture of carrots on it. There she was again. I still couldn’t feel her there, but she was making herself known.

If you look closely, you can see carrots on the left side of the white sign on the building.

If you look closely, you can see carrots on the left side of the white sign on the building.

As we left the hospital, the elevator doors opened onto the third floor. Thinking it was my stop, I started to step out. I paused realizing quickly I was getting off prematurely, when I almost bumped into a young woman, a teenager in fact, crying right there in front of the doors. She saw us and walked away. A hour before, I was her. A woman standing in front of the elevator doors, delaying my journey to retrace the last days of my daughter. I had cried tears for the baby I had lost and the memories I was about to face. I saw her crying on the third floor- I’m unsure what kind of floor it is- and wondered whom she was crying for. I turned to Chris and said, “I’m not the only one who cries by the elevators.”